When I met you, I was a house-sitter 

in my own body, eating pastries and 

dozing off drunk in the shower.

When we talked, words leaped out of my mouth 

like animals released into the wild. You unwrapped 

your life like a talisman, spoke 

about years and ways you’d ached 

in a postcard-ready small town. Time wobbled 

on rubbery legs and I was lost in the roominess 

of your voice. Later, we put in earplugs 

and lay on the bed side by side, barely touching. 

We construed each others’ muffled sounds-as sparks

from a saw, as rhizomes drowned in muddy water-

and dreamed them into notes overnight,

shaping them to a melody we hummed 

to ourselves in the morning.